{commemoratio - an observation or celebration to honour the memory of a person or event once loved.}
y/n's pov:
Five years ago today, Chuck was shot, and passed away in my arms.
I think about that day all the time - how terrifying even the possibility of losing someone was, and how that possibility came true the moment that gun went off. It wasn't the act of Chuck dying alone that haunted me so continuously throughout the years, it was also the possibility of friendship that was taken from me that day that I could never get away from.
The anger stemmed from losing him; from not being able to protect him even when that was the one thing I have been trained to do. When time had passed, and the wound had become numb and scabbed over, I knew the anger was because I now don't get the chance to know him.
The world stole him from me before I even got the chance to know who he was.
But, now, here I am, standing over the pale corpse of an old friend, and yet, I feel nothing.
I knew I was angry, but I wasn't exactly sure at what, or whom.
Lincoln turns to me, softly. "He was strangled." He said, his voice low and sympathetic. "Whoever did this was so strong they crushed his windpipe. Such an awful way to die." He says, shaking his head.
I begrudgingly take a deep breath in. "We should hold off on any funeral arrangements - the longer he's above ground the better we can understand what happened to him."
Lincoln peers over the boy's body, examining the bruising on his neck. "Their hands were massive, so we can assume the suspect is male. He must have squeezed so hard that the blood vessels in his eyes burst, which is what caused this colouring around the sockets." He says, pointing towards the purple that situated around his eyes.
I sigh, turning to him, fatigued and annoyed. "Can we do this later? I don't think I can be in here right now."
Lincoln himself looked exhausted as he covered Dion's body back up with the white sheet. "I'll keep looking." He says, assorting his tools and equipment.
I had barely spoken to Lincoln since everything had happened - I knew he was eager to relieve that tension, to get back to where we were before I so outwardly despised him, but that place didn't exist anymore, and I don't want to be his friend.
I turn to leave, but he clears his throat, signalling that he wanted to speak.
"Y/n..."
My expression was cold and irritated.
He takes a deep breath in, as I turn to face him again.
"Tell Newt I'm sorry."
I was taken aback for a moment, surprised that he even cared for his well being in the slightest.
Appreciatively, I nod, and in the interest of not speaking with him anymore, I walk out the door, back out in the sunlight.
When I'd look around the camp, I'd see many people, starting their jobs for the day, or heading to the dining hall for breakfast. The majority seemed happy; grateful for the simple fact of being alive another day.
Not everyone knew about Dion yet, only a select few, and upon telling them, I'll have to explain why our camp is no longer safe, and why yet again, I failed to save someone in my care.
I have to explain to everyone why our home is no longer safe, and that someone among us has murdered our friend.
I have to tell Newt that someone we know, killed his friend. I just don't know who yet.
